


Eat your Fill

by vapourtoastie



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, Gen, POV Alternating, This has been on my mind for DAYS, Time Travel Fix-It, i have a plan so this isnt completely off the hook but im just writing this for funsies, prepare for a funky time, so incredibly self indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:13:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29387514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vapourtoastie/pseuds/vapourtoastie
Summary: "We beg your pardon, you are- what?"If they had conventional eyes, they would be glinting."Then beg," they signed, watching the court gathered in the throne room with glee, and ignoring the lance pressed to the back of their neck.--A wrong never righted causes other wrongs to be righted.
Relationships: The Pale King/White Lady (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 119
Kudos: 227





	1. Balance

Consumed.

Filthy amber consumed in her own realm, encompassed and engulfed by her destined enemy.

If only she had died there, lashed to pieces and left to rot in the Sunlight, but alas, the Void was greedy in its vengeance. It tore into her, ripping past outer appearances and straight into the Essence Core, the True Dreamgate. Her control, her being.

The Void ate its fill and more, tendrils of pure vacancy readily absorbing the subject of all of their combined grief. _Her fault, her fault, her fault_ , resounded across the Sea.

Two opposites, one a vacuum, the other consciousness. Nothing and something. Something and nothing.

_Where did the Radiance end, and where did the Void begin?_

She was weak, and steadily fading in the darkness enveloping her dying form.

_Where does a God begin, and their rulings end?_

Nothing cannot contain something without changing its being. Something cannot become nothing. Godhome flickered, fluctuated, Light and Dark, flashing, floundering, fading-

Until it wasn’t. 

A stasis not unlike the fall of Hallownest, a pause in the violent clash overhead. A single godseeker turned to look above, to their attuned Gods. They had succeeded, but unlike Thunder and Rain, who entwined their ascension and sovereignty over Storms, Void and Light…

Nothing.

No colour, no sound, no feeling, no light, no darkness. 

Except, that is, for the Voidheart, pulsing faintly in the centre of absence. Its presence was metaphysical, only felt through the Void Sea that held it; gathering. The Void was a singularity without Focus, convening to one point, around the Heart. 

And within the Heart resided a ghost. A something.

A something overwhelmed by the rippling power that shuddered the Sea, embracing their not-shell and _hurting._

The Light burned. From the inside out, it burned and swelled and pained them. Like thorns in a rosebud, the Light swirled through their chest, straight for their Heart. In a single moment, in that single point, nothing and something united.

A _wrong._

A wrong that could reverse all the others.

Ghost woke up in the Howling Cliffs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanted to write something longer for fun, so it might not be as conceptualised as i like but !! i wanted to see if i have the stamina for this type of thing
> 
> this is SO self indulgent but im having a good time
> 
> let me know any ideas you have in the comments and i might include them if they fit <3


	2. Chapter 2

The Cliffs were exactly as they remembered.

Well, with an added travelling population. And clean, paved paths rather than the cracked and decrepit trail they had prior followed.

At least the lumafly lanterns were the same, they considered, still reeling and drowsy. Several husks surrounded them, flowing as two rivers, to and from the enormous metallic lift that now hung at the edge.

Could they even consider these bugs husks anymore? They sifted through the small satchel pocket within their cloak, only to come up empty of a Hunter’s Journal; their map, too.

A husk- no, a _bug_ brushed by them, anchoring an arm joint on the edge of their horn to push past. Ghost stumbled, instinctively adjusting their stance to balance, before another bug pushed along and sent them tumbling in the other direction. 

They caught themself at the last second with a thin void tendril. 

Dusting themself off, Ghost navigated to the side of the bustling crowd. They took a moment to scan their surroundings and evaluate their position.

They were in the past, that much was obvious; Hallownest was nowhere near as popular in their previous present. Well-maintained paving and working mechanisms spoke of a time when the ruined kingdom still held its wits about it.

Another bug knocked into their horn.

The void within their shell rumbled in displeasure, and Ghost resigned themself to the reality that Howling Cliffs was a terrible place for rest. 

* * *

If the Pale King didn’t die of his chronic insomnia, the headache he awoke with would definitely serve his end. 

He yawned, adjusting the collar of his robes as he took to the hallways, the Pure Vessel following close behind. Despite the late hour he slept at, the Wyrm found himself early that morning with a pounding head and a lack of foresight. Both were frustrating in their own right, perhaps a case of cause and effect, but the reason he mustered the will to collect the Vessel and traverse the Palace was a case of its own.

A disturbance in the power balance. 

Just the eve before had he been calculating more of the risks and benefits of the various ores that could be used to establish the foundations of the Black Egg Temple, solemn with the endeavor but reconciled with the necessary followup of his decisions. What had occurred during his fitful rest, that tipped the Light struggle in his favour and introduced a new, writhing presence to Godhood? 

Pure Vessel stumbled behind him.

Attention ensnared, the King turned to it, pressing gently to his temple as he analysed its posture; it was perfect, back straightened and head held high. But he was certain that it stumbled.

A misstep in his own gait, or in the gait of any other bug would be excusable. Understandable, even, with given reasoning. However, his Vessel was in its own league, one where even a mild falter such as this was cause for scrutiny.

“Are you functioning correctly?” he prompted, squashing the concern that bubbled deep in his chest.

A nod. Good.

The King resolved to keep an eye on it. As such, instead of accompanying it to its training session, he guided it to the private hall where his dear wife awaited him. The thought of her brought a smile to his covered face, causing his head to throb with the movement. 

With every tap of his or the Vessel’s legs on the pristine floor, and the echo, his claws shook and his thorax ached. As impossible as it should be, normally he would consider the explanation of some ailment he encountered… But unease writhed in his glow, and his soul felt tight. Absolutely not normal.

Click. The door slid open, and he was greeted with his beloved Root. 

“Good morning, dearest,” she murmured, tilting her head affectionately in greeting.

Personally, the King thought her voice a wonderful addition to his day, although his headache clearly disagreed. It hadn’t worsened, but neither did it let up, a consistent buzzing annoyance.

He returned the sentiments sluggishly, settling down in his seat across from her with all the grace of a hatchling, shoulders slumped.

The White Lady frowned, glancing up at the Pure Vessel stood stock still behind her husband, before stretching out her roots. The current in the air helped manoeuvre a branch to rest upon the Wyrm’s shoulder, delicate and caring, soothing with their cool touch that thrummed with life.

Albeit that life, too, seemed off. The Pale King groaned.

“My love, do you sense it?” he managed, head seeming like it weighed ten goams as he placed it on his arm.

“The disturbance?” she replied easily, stirring a glass rod through her tea.

He winced, replying, “Yes. It has muddled our foresight and disrupted our influence,”

Humming, the Queen continued to rub his shoulder to ease the pain. Grateful, he leaned into it, and she obliged, moving to his neck.

Cold. Incredibly cold. She flinched.

Immediately, she retracted feeling from a root and pulled his collar back, exposing the Kingsoul charm that resided there, hidden. Even with the lack of nerves in that root, it ached to touch, stabbing pains like droplets trickling upwards from the point of contact to her thorax. The charm dropped to the table.

At the edge of her vision, the White Lady noted the Pure Vessel stiffen. She ignored it, determining the issue secondary to the current problem with the greyish charm laid in front of the King. 

The reticence for discussion hung in the air for far too long, stuffy alongside the sudden clearing of the Pale King’s head.

“It is a few shades darker than when we last checked, is it not?” the Wyrm eventually relented.

The White Lady nodded, mute in her shock. 

The elegance he had previously lacked returned to his movements, as he leaned forward gingerly to touch the charm.

Root smacked his outstretched claw, disapproval overpowering the disbelief.

Recoiling, the King rose to his full height, and announced, “We will gather some equipment to handle the charm,” and with his concentration dead set on the task, his robes swished behind his absconding form.

Sighing, the Queen shook her affected roots, the numb sensation yet to recede. Her gaze turned to the other occupant of the room, though its presence was negligible. At her core, she wished to relieve it of what it could be bothered by, but realistically she knew it had no capability to have such affairs.

“Guard this charm until your father returns,” she ordered, sparing it a fleeting look as she doubled the departure.

* * *

Decidedly, Dirtmouth was also an awful place for rest. 

Eyeing the market stalls and signs, Ghost couldn’t begin to hope for comprehension on where to go, not to mention the bugs that had traversed the lift and bridge with them. 

It was indicative of their status as a ghost then, that they managed to find a gap between several houses for a moment’s respite among the commotion of the streets. Their pockets were truly empty. Charm-holder gone. Map, journal, relics, quill, all gone.

A quick survey of their cloak revealed its original fibre, and, if only to mourn the memory of the mothwing material, they clutched it between their small claws. Not only was it an asset to their exploration and battles, but a keepsake of their fallen sibling. They attempted to call out to them, now, as the Lord of Shades. A bell chimed in Dirtmouth, rebounding through the caverns and reaching the Void deep below.

No response.

They called again.

No response.

Frantically, they checked the clasp of their cloak. No Voidheart. That could be within reason; it was merely a representation of their true Voidheart, after all. Shrugging their cloak half-off, Ghost inspected their carapace and- nothing. It was blank.

The King’s Brand that permitted entry to the Abyss, the Heart that was the needle that threaded the Void together were no longer there.

_Where does a God begin, and their rulings end?_

But Gods still wielded power; power yet to be retracted by this turn of events. The Voidheart was their tuner, but their song rang true. The bell chimed, and though it would not ever reach the Abyss from this distance, it would reach some. They needed the Voidheart, the Kingsoul. They needed to find it.

As their figure shook with distress and exertion, they called out.

A familiar silhouette approached.

* * *

The Pure Vessel had found the Kingsoul.

It was merely in front of them, resting as their mother left it. So glaringly grey against the silver table, so simple to take.

No, they must follow orders. Guard the charm, as she had said. Ignore the voice. Sit up straight.

Another cry pierced the back of their head, the desperation fuelling their dilemma. Do not take the charm, follow orders. There is no authority around to supervise, therefore prior orders must be adhered to. 

They glanced at the unguarded door. No authority to supervise. Tension grew in their frame, and as it reached its peak, yet another yell-

The decision was in their claws, and so was the Kingsoul charm. 

They walked out, authorities none the wiser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u sm @Pillbug_Panic for beta reading <3


	3. Chapter 3

The main square of Dirtmouth was particularly busy, Quirrel noted.

Conversation and trade sparked along the stalls, and bugs of all sorts wandered the space in search of their own interests. The Madam had never sought out such conventions of welcome in the Archive, so the stark contrast in ambiance momentarily made him pause. He wouldn’t denounce his work and home for anything, but being in the presence of his fellow common bugs once every few cycles was an appreciated change.

“No time for lulling,” he muttered to himself, catching a glimpse of the town’s cycle dial and consequently hurrying his pace towards the King’s Pass bridge. 

Apparently, he was to meet some new students that were moving to Hallownest from another kingdom. The Wastes weren’t kind to travellers, and neither were Hallownest’s signs, hence the Madam declared it wise for him to guide. He wasn’t complaining, legs stiff from paperwork and eyes bright in anticipation.

Thud. Something nearby.

The noise stood out to him, unique in its distinction from any visual clues as to what it could be; no stall owners were moving crates, no customers had been haphazard with their grip. Quirrel’s antenna twitched under his hood, and he intuitively knew that it had come from the gloomy alley behind an establishment he stood near.

Bugs around him proceeded with their lives, uncaring of the noise. Quirrel clutched his scroll, knowing that he should head for the bridge, but enthralled and concerned by the mystery. He tucked the parchment neatly into his bag. This detour wouldn’t take long.

Wearily, the pillbug kept a hand on his nail as he sidestepped a few workers milling about and rounded the corner. It was dim without any lanterns, so he brought out his own, holding it ahead with caution. A small creature, meagre and feeble-looking, came into view and he took a few steps closer.

“Greetings,” he spoke, crouching down deliberately and placing his lantern to the side.

The poor thing (a bug, he could now see from his vantage) seemed to be shivering, not reacting to his words or presence. He shuffled closer, reaching out with his free claws. 

He halted when they flinched, anticipating a hiss or perhaps some physical backlash for his approach. The enigmatic bug stared through him, trembling increasing in intensity. Quirrel chewed on his tongue.

“Are you-” he began, but was interrupted by a weight settling onto his front, tiny arms wrapping around his midsection. Eyes wide, the pillbug returned the hug, claws smoothing down the hatchling’s back.

He waited a few moments. “I’m going to stand now, little one. If you don’t wish to be carried, you can let go,” he declared softly, adjusting his grip. They shook their head, and leaned in further.

Huffing in equal parts amusement and worry, Quirrel attached his lantern to his belt and left the alcove. Their cloak felt worn in his palms. He internally fretted, but otherwise just held them closer; they must be lost.

Across the town, the cycle dial turned, cogs clacking together. 

_That's right, the students!_

Quirrel shifted from leg to leg, ultimately deciding to gather them and request assistance. Already, a humble group had convened at the base of the bridge, some appearing frustrated, assumedly from impatience . Wonderful.

* * *

Meditation had been going well.

 _Finally_ , his pupil had grasped the concept. It had taken longer than expected, but Oro deemed it a valuable lesson; a sharp mind wielded a sharper nail. He almost admitted his pride, but held the silence and allowed the feeling to warm his thorax. 

In fact, he would say the session had been going _suspiciously_ well, considering the previous attempts leading to restless wrestling. Therefore it goes without saying that the Nailmaster was unsurprised when the concentrated atmosphere was eventually shattered. 

Without warning, his pupil gripped their head. They covered their eyes, and stilled.

“Do not strain your stance so recklessly, three-claws,” he grunted, moving closer and, when waved off, patiently lingering until the episode ran its course. The child looked so miniscule, curled up and static. Despite being in their second moult, they were barely taller than his middle, excluding their disproportionately long horns. Young and alone. 

_Not alone anymore,_ he corrected himself, no longer having the stamina to deny their master-pupil bond as he had half-heartedly done in the beginning. In the Kingdom’s Edge, they only had each other, and he would be a fool to abandon the grub.

They clicked. 

His eyes snapped towards them, and they signed, “Sibling needs help. I must find them,” with a direct and unwavering look.

Rolling his eyes beneath his mask, Oro couldn’t even entertain the idea of _not_ giving into their wide, pleading gaze. Yet he hesitated, weathered by his years of solitude in his hut. Change was often bad, like the great hoppers gaining strength with infection, like confronting his feud with his brother. 

A tug at his cloak. His pupil peered up at him, and he conceded that not all change was bad. With their approval, he rested his palm on their back, and ushered them to their nail sheath. “How far are they?” he asked, turning to his own nail held securely to the wall.

“Far. Up,” they signed single-handedly, strapping their belt across their shoulder.

Oro groaned. Hopefully not as far as he dreaded, his tactic of avoiding his problems through seclusion should have worked for another decade at least.

Waving at him from the doorway, his pupil hopped in place. _Thank the Gods for masks_ , he thought, a faint smile growing on his face.

* * *

“Excuse me, do you know this child?”

Shake.

Quirrel sighed. This hatchling mystery was proving to be frustrating, especially since the hatchling in question refused to move from his hold. He began to suspect misunderstanding, though, when they perked up at him addressing them directly.

“Little one, could you describe your caretaker?” he suggested.

They tilted their head. “I don’t have one,” they signed, grabbing back onto him afterwards.

Frowning, Quirrel stalked towards one of the students. As much as the original situation had proved troubling, this vexed him. The child didn’t even seem to have gone through their first moult, chitin flexible and soft, and they were without a bug to take care of them. It was uncomfortably close to his own past, and thus he vowed to ensure this youngling’s safety.

“I’ll check with the town hall. Find the other three and wait for me by the stag station,” he directed, lightening up with the eagerness that the student displayed. She hurried off, and he trudged on.

“What is your name, if you are comfortable sharing?” he prompted, dodging a passing businessbug.

“Ghost, they,” they signed, now alert as to where they were headed. 

Nodding in acknowledgement, he replied, “My name is Quirrel, he.”

Quirrel pushed the door open, wincing at the squeaking hinges. 

Claws slammed on the desk.

“What do you mean, the Colosseum is illegal?!” a shieldbug yelled, grating at the shellwood and Quirrel’s nerves. 

He stepped forward, coming into the bug’s view and calmly mediating, “Is there something I can help you with?”

The clerk aged twenty eras with the interaction, being held together by his co-worker.

By contrast, the shieldbug's expression created the impression that they were both more frustrated, and growing embarrassed. They slapped some geo down into the donations jar, picked up a map and left.

Quirrel snorted, _some bugs_. 

Wildly, Ghost wriggled until they were out of his hold, dropping unceremoniously to the ground. They chased after the shieldbug, whose blue exoskeleton glinted in the light.

“W-wait!” he protested, running after them.

The office workers breathed a sigh of relief.

For their height, the child covered an impressive amount of ground. But Quirrel wasn’t trained for nothing, effortlessly regaining it.

“Ugh!” the shieldbug cried, legs barrelling into Ghost. Odd, Quirrel hadn’t seen them manage to pass him. “What’s your problem, squib?” he exclaimed, quickly regaining balance.

Gesturing inexplicably, they pointed to his map. The shieldbug visibly brightened in curiosity. 

Once more, Quirrel sighed; it appeared that their travel group would gain yet another addition.

* * *

Flaky white was dusted around the duo, accentuating the earthy cavern they journeyed. Peace was never at the forefront of Oro’s consciousness, but he presumed this was close. The great nail on his back was more decoration than of use, apparently.

He tired of the quiet. “You need a name, pupil,” he stated.

Bewildered, they gawked at him.

“A name, something to refer to you as. I was not named Oro by my personal choice, but it is mine. Pick something you like,” he explained, interpreting his student’s general direction and adjusting course to the tramway.

Confusion alleviated, they lifted their head in thought. After a pause, they puffed out their chest and signed, “Oro.”

Oro guffawed. Later, he would be embarrassed at his laughter, but the unexpected answer caught him off-guard.

“Oro is _my_ name, three-claws,” he started, touching his mask to assure himself it was in place, “You must choose your own.”

Ostensibly, this threw them for a loop, their mask bobbing around in thought. _Endearing, as troublesome as they can be,_ the Nailmaster thought.

“Sage,” they eventually came up with, chirping as they bounced around Oro.

He was instantly reminded of their breakfast, and the whole leaf that snuck in, ergo of course getting stuck in his throat. “The Great Nailsage will get a kick out of that one,” he mused instead, mildly offended at their choice.

Conversation lapsed, and Oro returned to observing the fluttering specks that surrounded them. The Edge kept a barrier between him and the rest of the kingdom, a comfortable gap that he needn’t worry about closing. Mato surely scorned him, in his home atop the world. 

When the two neared the tram, only then could he notice the taste of decay in the air. It thinned out as they left. He was _leaving_. Oro gripped their provisions rigidly, overcome in the moment. 

Sage tugged on his cloak. They pulled him towards the platform.

Just as Oro wondered if they could sit still long enough for the journey, he noticed the commotion around the cart. The station was sparsely populated, but every bug joined the circle. Shenanigans- exactly what he didn’t need.

“Get out of the way,” he spat, nudging civilians and warriors aside. A single bug sat in the centre, black tears leaking down their white mask, and uncannily similar in appearance to his pupil. Their pale robes were stained with the contrasting substance, and their claws shook where they dug into the carapace of their legs. As he predicted, Sage buzzed with energy as they seated themself in front of the other. _That’s ok,_ Oro grinned, _I have some bystanders to deal with._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (sage is lost kin/broken vessel !)
> 
> finally !!!! we truly begin...
> 
> ok this one was actually super fun to write ngl
> 
> un-beta'd one just for u all <3 dont kill me @Pillbug_Panic for posting this before u check it, im too excited
> 
> edit: it has now been edited thank u qau


	4. Chapter 4

It was their luck, then, that they hadn't been spotted in their escape from the private hall. 

Kingsoul warm in their grasp, the Pure Vessel did their best to stride as they usually did. Even, measured steps and mask set on their path, they hid their trembling claws, gripping tightly onto the inside of their cloak.

The hallways nearby had been barren, sparing them few precious moments to compose themself, but upon turning a corner farther out, they collided with another. Marble floor met their side, and the Vessel felt ashamed. Quickly, they compartmentalised the emotion and set it aside, glancing up to the familiar face.

“Ah, Vessel! Good day, haha!” Ogrim greeted, eyes pinched in fondness. He held out the claw not occupied with holding a tram pass. They accepted it, and he pulled them up without strain. “Hegemol is searching for you. I am due for the palace’s entrance, but the training ground is near enough if you wish for accompaniment,” he offered, stepping back to a respectable distance and remaining.

The Vessel tensed. He had come close enough, and had a window of time to see under their cloak. Did he know? Did he see the charm? Their grip on it tightened painfully, and the Void within them churned. Compartmentalise. Do not feel. Despite their current agenda, their overarching duty was still in place and they would not jeopardise it.

Lost in their spiralling paradox of thought, when the Vessel gradually came to focus on their surroundings, Ogrim was squirming under their intense gaze. They weren’t prepared to answer his query, helplessly continuing the staring match.

Realisation dawned on the Knight’s face. “My apologies, Vessel, it has been some time since my training on how to address and behave around you. You are aware of where the grounds are,” he finished, seeming as though he had more to say that was left unsaid as he brushed past them in his original direction.

How would they reach their sibling? They sounded so distant, and the Vessel had little idea of locations outside the Ancient Basin. All they knew was _up_ , but how far up? They wished- _no,_ they didn’t. They did not wish for anything, even if the call had been vague.

The palace walls glimmered with soul as they idly followed Ogrim, reflecting dozens of dazzling colours. They recalled the many exits of the palace; the one he was on course for led to the tramway.

In the past, before they reached their third moult, the King himself often took them on day trips to different nearby areas, such as the Hive and Deepnest (Hornet must be missing them, they knew). But to utilise the system, they needed a tram pass. 

Ogrim hummed ahead of him, jolly gait boosting his merry aura, and tram pass dangling precariously from his ill-suited claws. He was near the end of the hallway, where there would undoubtedly be others. This was their only shot. 

The Vessel tripped.

Spinning around at the noise, the Defender hurriedly traced his steps back to them. “Oh my, I hadn’t realised your presence, Vessel! Are you ok?” he rambled, presumably occupied with questioning their falter. A stab of guilt coarsed through them.

Ogrim’s presence was a constant, ebbing pain; not by virtue of his cheer, nor his apparently repulsive stench that they couldn’t confirm, but the confliction. He clearly thought of them as more, with his slip-ups of personalisation, and defaults to treating them no different than a regular bug. It felt wrong, contrasting every ounce of their purpose and duty, but it also introduced fondness, which they could not afford to have.

So when their claws panged with remorse of their act, they did as they always had; compartmentalise, set aside, and take the tram pass. The Void tendril went unnoticed, slipping between the White Defender’s desensitised claws and the pass, curling around it and hesitantly slithering back under their cloak. The Vessel took his outstretched claw.

“Perhaps I should accompany you to the training ground after all!” he teased, tacking on his signature laughter.

Their claws were full and stinging. They shouldn’t be doing this.

“Haha… ha,” he trailed off.

They stared at each other.

“Well, I, uh... best be going,” Ogrim mumbled.

Further silence.

“Have a good day,” he said at last, thoroughly thrown off as he sullenly returned to his previous pace. The Vessel huffed, hastily taking a different route as soon as he was out of sight.

The Palace was ethereal. Visitors often described it as a chilled daydream, with the intricate architecture and otherworldly interior; it glowed with the King’s light. He was the lifeblood of the White Palace, ensuring its keep through his generous soul. To visitors, it was a haven. To the Vessel, it was a home.

They looked back, on the cusp of throwing everything away. Either way, they would lose something; their Father, or their hatchmate.

Instinctively, from the call, they knew it was them. The sibling that they abandoned. For their entire existence, they had done to that memory what they had done to everything else they weren’t supposed to have. The Vessel assumed that they had died, falling to the base of the Abyss like the many others. Alas, no, and the sheer anguish and grief that had been conveyed shook their being.

The Vessel would do anything for their father. The Vessel would do everything for their father...

They would return.

Their sibling needed them, and the Vessel would not fail them again.

* * *

The Ancient Basin Tramway was popular; an unofficial crossroads of sorts. Most bugs passed through to the capital, though many stayed for other destinations. Trade had increased following the treaty signed by Deepnest and the Hive’s Queens, and the Infection had yet to reach the heart of Hallownest.

The Vessel was neutral on its existence, however, given the chance, they would not return without an authority figure.

“Tram to Deepnest, leaving soon!” the conductor announced. They would rather go through the City, but the countless guards would uncover their identity in a heartbeat. Herrah hadn’t disliked them, had she? Perhaps she could help, and they could visit Hornet while they were there.

“Oh no! I seem to have misplaced my pass, haha!”

Nevermind.

The Vessel U-turned, swiftly joining the last few passengers boarding the Kingdom’s Edge tram. They could feel the stares they garnered, what with their outlandish horns and expensive clothing and armour.

When prompted, they showed the pass. It was accepted, and they were the final to board. Faintly, through the closing doors, they heard a bug yelling their title. 

“Please remain seated!” the conductor declared, operating the buttons to start the shuttle. Arms tucked closely to their abdomen, the Vessel took their place between two merchants.

Their frazzled nerves did nothing to aid them when the bugs beside them began to ask questions. The hum of the machinery and the simmering of their Void prevented them from being able to discern the words, not that they could answer them regardless. Time passed so slowly that it sped up, and they were completely disoriented when the conductor shouted once more.

The merchants stood. They stood. More of them were staring. The Vessel’s claws dug into the Kingsoul.

A particularly pretentious noble misjudged the space between them and the exit, chatting loudly with an associate as they bumped into the Vessel’s side.

Three times. This was the third time they had fallen that day. Three failures. The first was due to their incompetence as a sibling, the second to make up for it, and now the third due to their abysmal luck. Void dripped down their mask, droplets splattering and permanently staining their cloak.

When would this end? Several bugs circled them as they lay collapsed.

“Get out of the way.”

Through their blurry vision, they watched as someone kneeled in front of them. _Sibling_ , they heard. Sibling? The Vessel shook their head to clear their sight, directing it to the blank, _alive_ look of their sibling.

The younger Voidling patted their cloak, gesturing manically. _Missed you. Sibling ok?_

Everything was there. The connection of the Void was firm at their close range, and though the Vessel was infinitely inexperienced with it, they attempted to push back the same sentiments. Claws clenching in their excitement, their sibling bounced in place. Many memories collected at the forefront of their mind, none of which were the Vessel’s own. Too many, _too much._ The tension returned to their form.

Their sibling chirped, tilting their head. The presence of their mind receded, and the Vessel could at last feel the earth beneath them.

“You done there?” a gruff voice pierced the ambiance, heavy but deliberately muffled steps marching towards the two. The station was now clear of bugs besides their group.

* * *

Kingdom’s Edge bore major differences to the Hive.

In an instant, the Vessel noted the vast quantities of white ash that dotted the ground, fleeing the looming ceiling of the lengthy caverns at a languid pace. Not to mention the piles that layered upon each other, building crude towers that reminded them of the City.

“So, I’m assuming you’re here for the same reason Sage and I are,” Oro, as they had learnt the bug was called, spoke. He was as tall as them to their horns, and tenfold as muscular; the Vessel would have been intimidated, if not for him holding their younger sibling’s claws in his own with a care unlike they had ever seen before.

At their silence, the other groaned. Their sibling, Sage, smacked his arm. 

“You’re a real piece of work, three-claws,” he huffed indignantly. The Vessel glanced at him in confusion.

 _Sibling, nickname?_ They managed to convey to Sage.

In response, their sibling hopped in front of Oro. The Vessel assumed that they were signing, but they couldn’t interpret it. They observed the path ahead- it was littered with rime, which flattened with a satisfying crunch under their weight.

“Ah. Well, sibling of my pupil, the history of their nickname ‘three-claws’ is not a long one,” he began, scratching his mask in thought, “It was one of our first meetings, when they were still a rogue hatchling that trespassed occasionally. They had only started signing, but was confident in their ability. Simply said, when I asked them how many claws they had on one hand they answered with-,” he pressed his hand to his mask, arms shaking in suppressed laughter.

The Vessel found their own arms shaking in a similar manner, only halting when they realised what they were doing. 

Stomping on a pile of particles farther along, their sibling brandished all eight claws. This time, the Vessel chirped at their expense. No longer able to withhold it, Oro chuckled, Sage kicking up a pile of dust in retribution.

Ignoring their overwhelming amount of guilt, the Vessel tried to focus on the present.

 _Sibling ok?_ Sage paused in their rampage to ask.

After a beat, the Vessel nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapters will most likely continue in this way from now on, with one POV but alternating between chapters
> 
> this was really difficult to write !!! hollow stop being so high maintenance !!!! your internal conflict is conflicting me
> 
> thank u all so much for your lovely comments, they really make my day and fuel me to write more <3
> 
> and as always !!! tysm @Pillbug_Panic for beta reading. youre a godsend.  
> one of their editing quotes: "i need to get through this crowd *takes out my trusty warhammer*"


	5. Chapter 5

“No, the moss goes on _top_ of the tower. Here, I’ll show you how it’s done, squib,”

Towers and Rocks was a terrible game with an equally terrible name, Ghost decided. Tiso could blame inefficient translation as much as he liked, but it changed nothing of the overcomplicated mechanics and fundamentally nonsensical ruleset.

Dust settled in the corner the two had found, away from the abundance of bugs in the centre of the Dirtmouth Stag Station. A single lumafly lantern brightened the cobble beneath them, prompting the ensuing game. Had Ghost the faintest clue on how to take their turn, they would be grateful, but as it stood Tiso was endlessly stuck explaining and re-explaining the concepts.

His voice echoed in their alcove, permeating the room as he became increasingly jerky with his movements and gestures. At last, he threw his piece down, sinking into his crouched position. A sigh, and he crossed his arms. Ghost shifted in place, adjusting and readjusting their cloak as they halfheartedly tuned into the chatter of the bugs at the station; an unfamiliar white noise, but one they didn’t mind, slightly easing their stress.

“Ugh. Whatever,” the shieldbug squeezed his limbs closer to his thorax, resting his head on his shield. He watched as their Void tendril scooped up a bundle of moss, gingerly laying it onto a jagged rock. Tiso huffed, making no intention to move his gaze from the floor as he spoke.

“Hey, pale thi-” 

He halted as they gave him a sharp glare, the tendril thrashing and knocking over a tower. Rolling his eyes, he continued, “Fine, _squib_. Do you truly know the location of the Colosseum? You are able to lead me there?”

They nodded, uprooting a weed that grew between cracks in the ground and nonchalantly twisting its stem between their claws. Tiso balanced his weight, nodding to himself. The lumaflies yawned, their light twisting curiously off the bug’s shield; a plethora of colours, dulled by Ghost’s natural sight, met the walls in a pretty refraction. They noted his grave disposition and stony silence and wondered what was on his mind. 

His arm moved, and along with it the light. They traced it with their senses, deciding. Before their ascension they would have let this be, allowed his distracted demeanor to slide in favour of progression. But what did they await now? The Voidheart? They sensed that, too, its hazy presence a pulse in their peripherals. It would be found in time, they would make sure of it, and the stag hadn’t arrived yet, so what held them from an inquiry? 

The image of a blue figure, laid thoughtlessly in the Kingdom’s Edge to rot, brushed past their thoughts. They blocked it out.

Smack. Tiso glanced to the Void tendril that jostled his weapon, widening his eyes in question at them.

Claws scratching agitatedly on their cloak, Ghost took a moment to parse their phrasing. Warily, they signed, “Why do you want to...?” They searched the depths of their recollection for the sign for ‘go’ but ultimately gave up. The signs were repeated at Tiso’s behest.

“Though few could truly challenge me, I'm hoping the arena presents the sort of brutal challenge I'm after,” he explained, smirking. Ghost nearly missed the look he gave his shield. Wishing they were more competent at social cues, they took his familiar words with a pinch of salt.

Atmospheric chatter filled in the subsequent cease in conversation.

Was he uncomfortable? They turned their head away in case he was unsettled by their mask. Void bubbled restlessly beneath their cloak and their claws grated relentlessly against the rock, etching rivulets of lacerations into the earth. 

“The scholar should be done. Let’s go meet with him and, uh, the others,” Tiso suggested, tapping his shield a few times before he stood. Hesitation was apparent as he paused, seemingly pondering something. Ghost rose too, watching intrigued with a quirked mask.

Tiso offered the claws of his free arm. Ghost perked up and eagerly took them in his own, wrapping two of his in all of theirs as the duo treaded the uneven ground.

* * *

“-and once we reach the dormitory, you’ve the rest of the eve to acquaint yourselves,” the pillbug concluded, clasping his claws together and briefly scanning the younger bugs.

Tiso stepped harshly as they neared the group, gaining their attention. The lantern above had been broken, the lumaflies escaped, cloaking the bugs in shadows and further obscuring the shieldbug's face. A student flinched as he grumbled, “Are we moving on yet?”

Their designated leader folded his parchment, exchanging it for another paper from his bag. Ghost took this time to observe the group- Tiso and Quirrel, of course, they knew, but there were four unknowns they had yet to properly meet. Subconsciously, their claws gripped tighter onto Tiso’s as the Voidling attempted to familiarise themself with their masks. One pointed, one curled, one without mask, one without discernible features, they sensed. Which would be the most dangerous? Which could they defeat the most swiftly? Which-

Tiso squeezed their claws back, and they let up on their vice hold. They watched a particle of dust drift to the ground, forcing deep breaths that they didn’t need. As much as they wanted to hear Quirrel’s voice, they left Tiso’s side and trudged to the bell, ducking under outstretched arms and dodging roaming legs. No nail rested on their back, but they no longer needed it, a tendril slinking to the ground and sluggishly patting the brass once. Ghost reaffirmed their aim, and struck it with vigor.

Bugs cried out behind them as they continuously thwacked it, counting their breaths with each _ding_ that sounded. _Ding, ding, ding, ding-_

Quirrel was ostensibly the first to recover, bandana clutched tightly to his antenna to dull the ringing and the other set of claws heaving Ghost up by the scruff of their cloak. A kind and soft image betrayed the strength in his clutch, smoothly transferring the distanced hold to one where they rested neatly in his arms. 

“I’ve dealt with many young pupils and archivists, but _you_ ,” he began, booping the space in between their eyes, “have proven to be mighty troublesome.” 

The smaller bug mirrored his actions, earning a chuckle. 

Several bugs had approached them with complaints regarding the noise. Ghost felt lucky that Quirrel was eloquent and polite in their stead, pretending to look at the strangers but peering just to the left, at Tiso attempting to learn the students’ names with varying success.

“Yes, I am aware. Truly, I apologise for the-”

“Leto. Wait, Lemo? No? What do you-”

“Inconvenience we have caused, the little one was just-”

“I told you, it’s just my accent, Melo! … Not that either?”

The two stags arrived shortly afterwards, ahead of schedule with a pep in their canters. Tiso visibly cringed, expression sour as the group waited for other passengers to clamber off onto the platform. From their place in the pillbug’s arms, Ghost waved him over, eyeing the students that had already made the climb. 

Eventually they were all together, squashed like grubs in a cocoon. A bug in front glared at them, but Ghost paid no mind, squirming in their seat between Tiso and Quirrel. The latter patted their head, reclining for the journey.

“Can’t believe I’m…” Tiso griped sullenly, claws stiff on his legs. 

Queen's station wasn’t too far, Ghost mused, poking the sewn ends of the seating, but it would be a long ride.

* * *

As the lumaflies obeyed the cycles, and the stasis obeyed the spell, Tiso obeyed his grouchiness to the letter, muttering to himself and lurching with every turn. It made for adequate entertainment as Dirtmouth Stag Station became a speck on the horizon.

Greenpath, Queen’s Gardens, Queen’s Station, they predicted. Covertly, they debated hopping off to see what the Gardens looked like in this idealised past. However, no matter how fond they were of the fuzzy mossflies that populated the area, the possibility of meeting their mother before they were prepared sent a chill through their icy carapace.

Tiso’s grumbles had increased in volume. A peek at the students revealed them to be otherwise occupied with discussing something in their native tongue. Ghost faced the front again, inconspicuously leaning into Quirrel’s side and drooping their head.

“Agh!” Tiso cried, snatching the Void tendril that touched his outward arm. He squeezed it vindictively, huffing and letting it return to Ghost’s ‘sleeping’ form. Quirrel shushed him, and Tiso threw his arms up in indignation.

Ghost listened to the consequent lighthearted banter, content.

“Are we nearly there, Sir?” a pupil leaned forward to ask.

The pillbug snorted, “Quirrel is fine. We should be at our destination right about… now!” he called out, pointing to a distant glow.

What could have been a single lumafly swelled to two, then ten, then twenty, and belatedly, the Queen’s Station came into view. Ghost embraced the blunt to their senses, thick air washing over them with the setting change.

The group disembarked, Ghost waving to the stag they rode and appreciating the returned farewell. While the others stretched and assembled, they progressed into the main station.

What a sight to see, controlled shrubberies accentuating neat metalwork like silver linings, walls embossed with elegant patterns and paintings and glossed with a plant resin varnish. The high platforms were connected with sturdy stairways, crumbling only with the roots of stray mushrooms.

“Ghost, please don’t run off like that,” Quirrel scolded as he caught up.

They recalled the corner he had kneeled on, merely a few spaces above them. Could they even change what was to happen? The tragedy preceded by tragedy- would their efforts make a difference?

“Alright, you’re pulling my antenna. It’s Hela, right?” Tiso voiced, herding the students over.

They looked to where Quirrel once was- _would be,_ then to where he stood now. 

This would have to be worth it. Opportunity never presented itself twice, especially not one as anomalous as this. 

The Voidheart buzzed, ever closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello !!!! hope u all have been well 
> 
> school has just started again and i spent time before that catching up on some work. updates should be around weekly at this point but we'll see :))
> 
> im still open to suggestions if you would like to see something and it fits with the plan, so leave a comment if u want to <3
> 
> unbeta'd. sorry qau im a bit of an ass
> 
> edit: beta'd


	6. Chapter 6

Master Lurien was overworking himself again.

Rain dribbled through the gap in the window, simply fixed with a swipe of the butler’s cloth. The window was swiftly shut, latch clicking into place. Deft claws cleared the dust from the ledge, tucking the grime into a ball and gently dipping it into the water bucket placed to the side.

The butler turned to the other side of the room; the Master hadn’t moved from his place since earlier, scrawling hurriedly and bleeding ink into as many parchments as he could grab from his desk drawers. Frequently, he peered into his telescope, observing through the lens with the aid of his third eye. The butler itched to request to help in some manner, but he knew better than to disturb such frantic work. Thus, he kept close, dusting shelves and sills that had escaped his usual rounds of the observatory.

Although, this rationale did not stop him from worrying.

He watched the Master’s pen balance dangerously from his awkward grasp, as distracted as he was by focusing several lenses with his other claws. The butler sighed and stood behind him, readily catching the writing instrument in his palms as it inevitably fell.

The taller bug spun around, flinching at the sight of the butler and hitting the back of his head on the eyepiece. The butler bit his tongue.

“...Your abilities in your field far precede mine, dear butler,” Master Lurien huffed, accepting the pen as offered once he had recovered from his blunder.

The butler did not respond, hands clasping behind his back.

Master Lurien tilted his head, seemingly ready to return to his work but momentarily thrown off by an inkling of suspicion. The butler looked up to him, form and gaze not once wavering.

“I know what you attempt,” the Master began dryly, “and I despise that you know it would succeed.”

The butler did not move.

The Master groaned, slumping into his stool.

“Come here, my dear, obstinate butler,” he relented, swivelling to face the telescope and pulling the eyepiece down. His delicate sets of claws adjusted the rough focus, removed and inserted an assortment of filters and eyepiece graticules, and tuned the fine focus with precision the butler had always admired. At last, the Master stood, gesturing to his perch. The butler followed as directed and stepped up from the small stool to the seat, remaining standing.

“Sit,” Master Lurien insisted.

Perhaps the butler would have refused, to hopefully prevent further back pain than the Master already experienced, but something in his tone begged him to comply.

The eyepiece was leaned into his grasp, held firmly by the Master. “Do you see it?” he prodded, looking out the window after adjusting the optical tube. Gingerly, the butler inclined his head, eye wide in anticipation. 

What greeted him was the infirmary. The butler knew it to be ever so gradually filling with patients of the Infection, many rooms quarantined with a foul orange mist seeping in plumes from the cracks. From the reports, the sick, though relatively few, had risen in numbers recently, and so all had avoided the hub of the City’s fears, and more with the miniscule bubbled vines twining around the porch. Despite being cleared and cleaned hourly, they regrew and festered constantly; Master Lurien had been developing blueprints for a Soul contraption that would protect the building, but his work had been stretched too far too thin in recent cycles.

However, the butler noted that the lenses of the telescope showed the building to be as pristine as it had been prior to the Old Light’s rise. Odder still, there appeared to be an exchange of bugs passing through the doors to the threshold, and the air as clear as it was by the stalactites that formed the ceiling. He sat back in shock.

“It is as it was before. The entrance to the Wastes, too, is absolved from the mist, and the earth swellings have receded significantly. Not to mention many more minor details, such as the guards stationed in the outer perimeter being significantly less hazed. Do you know what this means, dear friend?” he rambled, crouching to his eye level.

The butler stilled; the Infection had abated.

Master Lurien kept his buzz, gathering together the parchment and shells he had written on and stuffing them into his partitioned cloth satchel. Ah, the satchel. 

“Master, allow me,” he suggested. 

The other bug barely noticed handing it over, caught up in hastily organising several documents and muttering to himself. Exhaling heavily, the butler brushed past clusters of canvases and stood by the door. He took out an umbrella from the stand, _the black one, the Master’s favourite_.

Master Lurien finished quickly, fingertips smudged with ink. He would admonish him, but figured it could wait. The Infection was diminished, and there was work to do.

* * *

Unabashed and unfettered by their emergency, the rain continued to splatter onto the umbrella, pooling in the dips and dripping from artificial stalactites steadily. Master took the handle, efficiently guiding them both through a winding shortcut to the Council Hall.

The butler dutifully kept the bag close to his side, pressed between them and safe from the light drizzle. It bulged with the contents and hung from his shoulder like a boofly, but the butler had dealt with worse, so he pestered the cobbles with his footfalls and held the Master’s furious pace.

They approached the Hall in record time, heaving for breath and tasting the serenity in the atmosphere. The taller bug shook their shared umbrella from the weather as they entered the domain, depositing it on one of the numerous racks that had been installed since the first Lake’s tear had called itself to the City’s anima.

“Oh Wondrous Watcher, to what do we owe the honour?”

The Master chuckled, and the butler stepped back.

“I bring good news,” he began, falling in step with the Council member, “Very good news.”

Unable to resist otherwise, the butler tuned his Master’s announcement out in favour of the prattling of his own contemplations. The towering blue of his closest friend accompanied his mind, relief settling with the usual fondness and replacing the chitin-crushing grief that had begun to creep into his subconscious as of late.

As the previous plan had been laid out, Master Lurien was to protect his most precious City and enter into a slumber he would never wake from, acting as a seal to the cure that the King had procured. It was necessary, and he could not have foreseen the Master ever refusing; if not for his home and his people, he would have done it for his King. The butler appreciated his tenacity for promise, as he always had, but…

He would miss him. Miss the moments they shared in the Spire, in the kitchens, in the halls, in the streets, working thoughtlessly in tandem. Perhaps, even being in his adult form, the butler had still retained the childish notion of forever.

However, with this turn of events, he felt a warmth overcome the sorrow; the fraying cloak ( _“It is for aesthetic appeal, dear butler.”_ ) no longer felt as fleeting.

“Master,”

The Watcher turned his mask to him.

“Might I suggest that I continue with the delivery of news as you implement protocols?” he asked, lifting the satchel in indication.

Master Lurien perked up, motioning to the other bug to wait. His tall figure shrunk as he squatted down, cloak bunching at the floor. “You are aware of where we would make haste next?” he questioned, voice low.

The butler suppressed a snort, and nodded.

“I, ah,” he fumbled, hesitating. One hand reached out from under his robe, presenting a letter written onto his finest parchment. 

This time he could not withhold his amusement, patting the Master’s knee and taking the letter. In the comfortable luma-lighting, the butler watched the Master’s third eye trained onto his own two. 

“Thank you, Marre,” he spoke softly, a grin in his tone.

“Of course, Master Lurien,” he returned, mirrored in expression.

The other bug stood to his full height once more, listing off the departments of the Pale Court that needed to be informed and handed notice to diligently, a notable vibrancy to his presence that the butler hadn’t sensed in far too long.

They shared a parting glance, the butler offering a curt wave. The Master nodded, and they both turned their separate ways. His voice reverberated against the metal walls alongside various Council persons’, fading into the background as Marre took his leave, departing the premises with a spare umbrella, en route to the Palace.

* * *

Placing the soaked umbrella onto the rack, thus perpetuating the spare umbrella cycle, the butler stepped onto the lift to the Palace Grounds. There were some groups that he had passed on the way, but the area was barren as he operated the contraption. _Lacklustre business day?_

Chains shuddered under the weight of the carriage, and the rough stone of the tunnel flew by. The butler tapped his claws on the floor, playing with a tassel the bag was adorned with.

Clank. Thud. The lift reached the ground.

The silence encouraged the echoing of his steps, encapsulating the eerie desertion of the bridge with another layer of unease. Two bugs appeared over the edge of the stairs in front of him, muttering in hushed voices filled with the glee of gossip. Marre politely kept his head inclined but gave into the temptation to eavesdrop. This impulse proved fruitless, for what he had heard had no bearing on reality. Honestly, the lengths to which some go for entertainment.

Descending the stairs, he pushed the conversation aside and forced his focus. Echoes of echoes flitted by, decorating the current ambiance with a heightened sense of loneliness by way of contrast. With every pace closer, the sound increased in volume and, with it, one rose above the rest; a reassuring presence, one instilled upon first impression.

“H-haha, no need for worry! That was merely a, uh, member of the Court I hadn’t spoken with in far too long and wished to- ah, catch up with! Yes, that’s right, haha! ...Please be on your way.”

Perhaps rumours held some truth in them after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehehehehehhhehehehehehe
> 
> ive edited all of the chapters to match this new format now that i've learnt more about how ao3 works
> 
> i also edited some of the content of chapter 4 ! just tweaked the convo PV and oro had a lil bit at the end to make more sense and flow better


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